Victor Appleton - "Tom Swift and his Wireless Message"

Daniel G. Brinton - "Aboriginal American Authors"

John Charles Dent - "Canadian Notabilities, Volume 1"

G. E. Wyatt - "Archie's Mistake"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Awful Disclosures

M >> Maria Monk >> Awful Disclosures




The bottles of which I spoke were made of very thick, dark-coloured
glass, large at the bottom, and, from recollection, I should say held
something less than a gallon.

I was once much shocked, on entering the room for the examination of
conscience, at seeing a nun hanging by a cord from a ring in the
ceiling, with her head downward. Her clothes had been tied round with a
leathern strap, to keep them in their place, and then she had been
fastened in that situation, with her head at some distance from the
floor. Her face had a very unpleasant appearance, being dark-coloured
and swollen by the rushing in of the blood; her hands were tied and her
mouth stopped with a large gag. This nun proved to be no other than Jane
Ray, who for some fault had been condemned to this punishment.

This was not, however, a solitary case; I heard of numbers who were
"hung," as it was called, at different times; and I saw Saint Hypolite
and Saint Luke undergoing it. This was considered a most distressing
punishment; and it was the only one which Jane Ray could not endure, of
all she had tried.

Some of the nuns would allude to it in her presence, but it usually made
her angry. It was probably practised in the same place while I was a
novice; but I never heard or thought of such a thing in those days.
Whenever we wished to enter the room for examination of conscience, we
had to ask leave; and after some delay were permitted to go, but always
under a strict charge to bend the head forward, and keep the eyes fixed
upon the floor.




CHAPTER XX.

More visits to the imprisoned Nuns--Their fears--Others temporarily put
into the Cells--Reliques--The Agnus Dei--The Priests' private Hospital,
or Holy Retreat--Secret Rooms in the Eastern Wing--Reports of Murders in
the Convent--The Superior's private Records--Number of Nuns in the
Convent--Desire of Escape--Urgent reason for it--Plan--Deliberation--
Attempt--Success.


I often seized an opportunity, when I safely could, to speak a cheering
or friendly word to one of the poor prisoners, in passing their cells,
on my errands in the cellars. For a time I supposed them to be sisters;
but I afterward discovered that this was not the case. I found that they
were always under the fear of suffering some punishment, in case they
should be found talking with a person not commissioned to attend them.
They would often ask, "Is not somebody coming?"

I could easily believe what I heard affirmed by others, that fear was
the severest of their sufferings. Confined in the dark, in so gloomy a
place, with the long and spacious arched cellar stretching off this way
and that, visited now and then by a solitary nun, with whom they were
afraid to speak their feelings, and with only the miserable society of
each other; how gloomy thus to spend day after day, months, and even
years, without any prospect of liberation, and liable every moment to
any other fate to which the Bishop or Superior might condemn them! But
these poor creatures must have known something of the horrors
perpetrated in other parts of the building, and could not have been
ignorant of the hole in the cellar, which was not far from their cells,
and the use to which it was devoted. One of them told me, in confidence,
she wished they could get out. They must also have been often disturbed
in their sleep, if they ever did sleep, by the numerous priests who
passed through the trapdoor at no great distance. To be subject to such
trials for a single day would be dreadful; but these nuns had them to
endure for years.

I often felt much compassion for them, and wished to see them released;
but at other times, yielding to the doctrine perpetually taught us in
the Convent, that our future happiness would be proportioned to the
sufferings we had to undergo in this world, I would rest satisfied that
their imprisonment was a real blessing to them. Others, I presume,
participated with me in such feelings. One Sunday afternoon, after we
had performed all our ceremonies, and were engaged as usual, at that
time, with backgammon and other amusements, one of the young nuns
exclaimed, "Oh, how headstrong are those wretches in the cells--they are
as bad as the day they were first put in!"

This exclamation was made, as I supposed, in consequence of some recent
conversation with them, as I knew her to be particularly acquainted with
the older one.

Some of the vacant cells were occasionally used for temporary
imprisonment. Three nuns were confined in them, to my knowledge, for
disobedience to the Superior, as she called it. They did not join the
rest in singing in the evening, being exhausted by the various exertions
of the day. The Superior ordered them to sing, and as they did not
comply, after her command had been twice repeated, she ordered them away
to the cells.

They were immediately taken down into the cellar, placed in separate
dungeons, and the doors shut and barred upon them. There they remained
through that night, the following day, and second night, but were
released in time to attend mass on the second morning.

The Superior used occasionally to show something in a glass box, which
we were required to regard with the highest degree of reverence. It was
made of wax, and called an Agnus Dei. She used to exhibit it to us when
we were in a state of grace; that is, after confession and before
sacrament. She said it had been blessed _in the very dish in which our
Saviour had eaten_. It was brought from Rome. Every time we kissed
it, or even looked at it, we were told it gave a hundred days release
from purgatory to ourselves, or if we did not need it, to our next of
kin in purgatory, if not a Protestant. If we had no such kinsman, the
benefit was to go to the souls in purgatory not prayed for.

Jane Ray would sometimes say to me, "Let's kiss it--some of our friends
will thank us for it."

I have been repeatedly employed in carrying dainties of different kinds
to the little private room I have mentioned, next beyond the Superior's
sitting-room, in the second story, which the priests made their "_Holy
Retreat_." That room I never was allowed to enter. I could only go to
the door with a waiter of refreshments, set it down upon a little stand
near it, give three raps on the door, and then retire to a distance to
await orders. When any thing was to be taken away, it was placed on the
stand by the Superior, who then gave three raps for me, and closed the
door.

The Bishop I saw at least once when he appeared worse for wine, or
something of the kind. After partaking of some refreshments in the
Convent, he sent for all the nuns, and, on our appearance, gave us his
blessing, and put a piece of poundcake on the shoulder of each of us, in
a manner which appeared singular and foolish.

There are three rooms in the Black Nunnery which I never entered. I had
enjoyed much liberty, and had seen, as I supposed, all parts of the
building, when one day I observed an old nun go to a corner of an
apartment near the northern end of the western wing, push the end of her
scissors into a crack in the panelled wall, and pull out a door. I was
much surprised, because I had never conjectured that any door was there;
and it appeared when I afterward examined the place, that no indication
of it could be discovered on the closest scrutiny. I stepped forward to
see what was within, and saw three rooms opening into each other; but
the nun refused to admit me within the door, which she said led to rooms
kept as depositories.

She herself entered and closed the door, so that I could not satisfy my
curiosity; and no occasion presented itself. I always had a strong
desire to know the use of these apartments: for I am sure they must have
been designed for some purpose of which I was intentionally kept
ignorant, otherwise they would never have remained unknown to me so
long. Besides, the old nun evidently had some strong reasons for denying
me admission, though she endeavoured to quiet my curiosity.

The Superior, after my admission into the Convent, had told me that I
had access to every room in the building; and I had seen places which
bore witness to the cruelties and the crimes committed under her
commands or sanction; but here was a succession of rooms which had been
concealed from me, and so constructed as if designed to be unknown to
all but a few. I am sure that any person, who might be able to examine
the wall in that place, would pronounce that secret door a surprising
piece of work. I never saw any thing of the kind which appeared to me so
ingenious and skilfully made. I told Jane Ray what I had seen, and she
said, at once, "We will get in and see what is in there." But I suppose
she never found an opportunity.

I naturally felt a good deal of curiosity to learn whether such scenes,
as I had witnessed in the death of Saint Francis, were common or rare,
and took an opportunity to inquire of Jane Ray. Her reply was--

"Oh, yes; and there were many murdered while you was a novice, whom you
heard nothing about."

This was all I ever learnt on the subject; but although I was told
nothing of the manner in which they were killed, I supposed it to be the
same which I had seen practised, viz. by smothering.

I went into the Superior's parlour one day for something, and found Jane
Ray there alone, looking into a book with an appearance of interest. I
asked her what it was, but she made some trifling answer, and laid it
by, as if unwilling to let me take it. There are two bookcases in the
room; one on the right as you enter the door, and the other opposite,
near the window and sofa. The former contains the lecture-books and
other printed volumes, the latter seemed to be filled with note and
account books. I have often seen the keys in the bookcases while I have
been dusting the furniture, and sometimes observed letters stuck up in
the room; although I never looked into one, or thought of doing so, as
we were under strict orders not to touch any of them, and the idea of
sins and penances was always present with me.

Some time after the occasion mentioned, I was sent into the Superior's
room, with Jane, to arrange it; and as the same book was lying out of
the case, she said "Come, let us look into it." I immediately consented,
and we opened it, and turned over several leaves. It was about a foot
and a half long, as nearly as I can remember, a foot wide, and about two
inches thick, though I cannot speak with particular precision, as Jane
frightened me almost as soon as I touched it, by exclaiming, "There you
have looked into it, and if you tell of me, I will of you."

The thought of being subjected to a severe penance, which I had reason
to apprehend, fluttered me very much; and although I tried to overcome
my fears, I did not succeed very well. I reflected, however, that the
sin was already committed, and that it would not be increased if I
examined the book. I, therefore, looked a little at several pages,
though I still felt a good deal of agitation. I saw, at once, that the
volume was the record of the entrance of nuns and novices into the
Convent, and of the births that had taken place in the Convent. Entries
of the last description were made in a brief manner, on the following
plan: I do not give the names or dates as real, but only to show the
form of entering them.

Saint Mary delivered of a son, March 16,1834.
Saint Clarice "daughter, April 2,"
Saint Matilda "daughter, April, 80,"

No mention was made in the book of the death of the children, though I
well knew not one of them could be living at that time. Now I presume
that the period the book embraced, was about two years, as several names
near the beginning I knew; but I can form only a rough conjecture of the
number of infants born, and murdered of course, records of which it
contained. I suppose the book contained at least one hundred pages, that
one fourth were written upon, and that each page contained fifteen
distinct records. Several pages were devoted to the list of births. On
this supposition there must have been a large number, which I can easily
believe to have been born there in the course of two years.

What were the contents of the other books belonging to the same case
with that which I looked into, I have no idea, having never dared to
touch one of them; I believe, however, that Jane Ray was well acquainted
with them, knowing, as I do, her intelligence and prying disposition. If
she could be brought to give her testimony, she would doubtless unfold
many curious particulars now unknown.

I am able, in consequence of a circumstance which appeared accidental,
to state with confidence the exact number of persons in the Convent one
day of the week in which I left it. This may be a point of some
interest, as several secret deaths had occurred since my taking the
veil, and many burials had been openly made in the chapel.

I was appointed, at the time mentioned, to lay out the covers for all
the inmates of the Convent, including the nuns in the cells. These
covers, as I have said before, were linen bands, to be bound around the
knives, forks, spoons, and napkins, for eating. These were for all the
nuns and novices, and amounted to two hundred and ten. As the number of
novices was then about thirty, I know that there must have been at that
time about one hundred and eighty veiled nuns.

I was occasionally troubled with a desire of escaping from the nunnery,
and was much distressed whenever I felt so evil an imagination rise in
my mind. I believed that it was a sin, and did not fail to confess at
every opportunity, that I felt discontent. My confessors informed me
that I was beset by an evil spirit, and urged me to pray against it.
Still, however, every now and then, I would think, "Oh, if I could get
out!"

At length one of the priests, to whom I had confessed this sin, informed
me, for my comfort, that he had begun to pray to Saint Anthony, and
hoped his intercession would, by-and-by, drive away the evil spirit. My
desire of escape was partly excited by the fear of bringing an infant to
the murderous hands of my companions, or of taking a potion whose
violent effects I too well knew.

One evening, however, I found myself more filled with the desire of
escape than ever; and what exertions I made to dismiss the thought,
proved entirely unavailing. During evening prayers, I became quite
occupied with it; and when the time for meditation arrived, instead of
falling into a doze as I often did, although I was a good deal fatigued,
I found no difficulty in keeping awake. When this exercise was over, and
the other nuns were about to retire to the sleeping-room, my station
being in the private sickroom for the night, I withdrew to my post,
which was the little sitting-room adjoining it.

Here, then, I threw myself upon the sofa, and, being alone, reflected a
few moments on the manner of escaping which had occurred to me. The
physician had arrived a little before, at half-past eight; and I had now
to accompany him, as usual, from bed to bed, with pen, ink, and paper,
to write down his prescriptions for the direction of the old nun, who
was to see them administered. What I wrote that evening, I cannot now
recollect, as my mind was uncommonly agitated; but my customary way was
to note down briefly his orders in this manner:

1 d salts, St. Matilde.
1 blister, St. Geneviere, &c. &c.

I remember that I wrote three such orders that evening, and then, having
finished the rounds, I returned for a few minutes to the sitting-room.

There were two ways of access to the street from those rooms: first, the
more direct, from the passage adjoining the sick-room, down stairs,
through a door, into the nunnery-yard, and through a wicket-gate; that
is the way by which the physician usually enters at night, and he is
provided with a key for that purpose.

It would have been unsafe, however, for me to pass out that way, because
a man is kept continually in the yard, near the gate, who sleeps at
night in a small hut near the door, to escape whose observation would be
impossible. My only hope, therefore, was, that I might gain my passage
through the other way, to do which I must pass through the sick-room,
then through a passage, or small room, usually occupied by an old nun;
another passage and staircase leading down to the yard, and a large gate
opening into the cross street. I had no liberty ever to go beyond the
sick-room, and knew that several of the doors might be fastened. Still,
I determined to try; although I have often since been astonished at my
boldness in undertaking what would expose me to so many hazards of
failure, and to severe punishment if found out.

It seemed as if I acted under some extraordinary impulse, which
encouraged me to do what I should hardly at any other moment have
thought of undertaking. I had sat but a short time upon the sofa,
however, before I rose, with a desperate determination to make the
experiment. I therefore walked hastily across the sick-room, passed into
the nun's room, walked by her in a great hurry, and almost without
giving her time to speak or think, said--"A message!" and in an instant
was through the door and in the next passage. I think there was another
nun with her at the moment; and it is probable that my hurried manner,
and prompt intimation that I was sent on a pressing mission, to the
Superior, prevented them from entertaining any suspicion of my
intention. Besides, I had the written orders of the physician in my
hand, which may have tended to mislead them; and it was well known to
some of the nuns, that I had twice left the Convent and returned from
choice; so that I was probably more likely to be trusted to remain than
many of the others.

The passage which I had now reached had several doors, with all which I
was acquainted; that on the opposite side opened into a community-room,
where I should probably have found some of the old inns at that hour,
and they would certainly have stopped me. On the left, however, was a
large door, both locked and barred; but I gave the door a sudden swing,
that it might creak as little as possible, being of iron. Down the
stairs I hurried, and making my way through the door into the yard,
stepped across it unbarred the great gate, and was at liberty!




CHAPTER XXI.

At liberty--Doubtful what to do--Found refuge for the night--
Disappointment--My first day opt of the Convent--Solitude--
Recollections, fears, and plans.


I have but a confused idea of the manner in which I got through some of
the doors; several of them, I am confident, were fastened, and one or
two I fastened behind me. [Footnote: Before leaving the nunnery grounds,
I ran round the end of the building, stood a moment in hesitation
whether I had not better return, then hastening back to the other side,
ran to the gate, opened it, and went out.] But I was now in the street,
and what was to be done next? I had got my liberty; but where should I
go? It was dark, I was in great danger, go which way I would: and for a
moment, I thought I had been unwise to leave the Convent. If I could
return unobserved, would it not be better? But summoning resolution, I
turned to the left, and ran some distance up the street; then reflecting
that I had better take the opposite direction, I returned under the same
Convent walls, and ran as fast down to St. Paul's street, and turning up
towards the north, exerted all my strength, and fled for my life. It was
a cold evening, but I stopped for nothing, having recollected the house
where I had been put to board for a short time, by the priest Roque,
when prepared to enter the Convent as a novice, and resolved to seek a
lodging there for the night. Thither I went. It seemed as if I flew
rather than ran. It was by that time so dark, that I was able to see
distinctly through the low windows by the light within; and had the
pleasure to find that she was alone with her children. I therefore went
boldly to the door, was received with readiness, and entered to take up
my lodging there once more.

Here I changed my nun's dress for one less likely to excite observation;
and having received a few dollars in addition to make up the difference,
I retired to rest, determined to rise early and take the morning
steamboat for Quebec. I knew that my hostess was a friend of the
Superior, as I have mentioned before, and presumed that it would not be
long before she would give information against me. I knew, however, that
she could not gain admittance to the Convent very early, and felt safe
in remaining in the house through the night.

But after I had retired I found it impossible to sleep, and the night
appeared very long. In the morning early, I requested that a son of the
woman might accompany me to the steamboat, but learnt to my regret that
it would not go before night. Fearing that I might fall into the hands
of the priests, and be carried back to the nunnery, and not knowing
where to go, I turned away, and determined to seek some retired spot
immediately. I walked through a part of the city, and some distance on
the Lachine road, when finding a solitary place, I seated myself in much
distress of mind, fearful and anxious, beyond my power, of description.
I could not think myself safe anywhere in the neighbourhood of Montreal;
for the priests were numerous, and almost all the people were entirely
devoted to them. They would be very desirous of finding me, and, as I
believed, would make great exertions to get me again in their hands.

It was a pleasant spot where I now found myself; and as the weather was
not uncomfortable in the daytime, I had nothing to trouble me except my
recollections and fears. As for the want of food, that gave me not the
slightest uneasiness, as I felt no inclination whatever to eat. The
uncertainty and doubts I continually felt, kept me in a state of
irresolution the whole day. What should I do? Where should I go? I had
not a friend in the world to whom I could go with confidence; while my
enemies were numerous, and, it seemed to me, all around me, and ready to
seize me. I thought of my uncle, who lived at the distance of five
miles; and sometimes I almost determined to set off immediately for his
house. I had visited it often when a child, and had been received with
the utmost kindness. I remembered that I had been a great favourite of
his; but some considerations would arise which discouraged me from
looking for safety in that direction. The steamboat was to depart in a
few hours. I could venture to pass through the city once more by
twilight; and if once arrived at Quebec, I should be at a great distance
from the nunnery, in a large city, and among a larger proportion of
Protestant inhabitants. Among them I might find friends, or, at least,
some sort of protection; and I had no doubt that I could support myself
by labor.

Then I thought again of the place I had left; the kindness and sympathy,
small though they were, which I had found in some of my late companions
in the Convent; the awful mortal sin I had committed in breaking my
vows; and the terrible punishment I should receive if taken as a
fugitive and carried back. If I should return voluntarily, and ask to be
admitted again: what would the Superior say, how would she treat me?
Should I be condemned to any very severe penance? Might I not, at least,
escape death? But then there was one consideration that would now and
then occur to me, which excited the strongest determination never to
return. I was to become a mother, and the thought of witnessing the
murder of my own child was more than I could bear.

Purgatory was doubtless my portion; and perhaps hell for ever--such a
purgatory and hell as are painted in the Convent: but there was one hope
for me yet.

I might confess all my deadly sins sometime before I died, and a Bishop
could pardon the worst of them.

This was good Catholic doctrine, and I rested upon it with so much hope,
that I was not quite driven to despair.

In reflections like these, I spent the whole day, afraid to stray from
the secluded spot to which I had retreated, though at different times
forming momentary plans to leave it, and go in various directions. I ate
not a morsel of food, and yet felt no hunger. Had I been well provided,
I could have tasted nothing in such a state of mind. The afternoon
wasted away, the sun set, and darkness began to come on: I rose and set
off again for the city. I passed along the streets unmolested by any
one; and reached it a short time before the boat was ready to start.




CHAPTER XXII.

Start for Quebec--Recognised--Disappointed again--Not permitted to land
--Return to Montreal--Landed and passed through the city before day--
Lachine Canal--Intended close of my life.


Soon after we left the shore, the captain, whom I had previously seen,
appeared to recognise me.

He came up and inquired if I was not the daughter of my mother,
mentioning her name. I had long been taught and accustomed to deceive;
and it may be supposed that in such a case I did not hesitate to deny
the truth, hoping that I might avoid being known, and fearing to be
defeated in my object. He however persisted that he knew me, and said he
must insist on my returning with him to Montreal, adding that I must not
leave his boat to land at Quebec. I said but little to him, but intended
to get on shore if possible, at the end of our journey--a thing I had
no doubt I might effect.

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